


A Cheetah Never Changes His Spots

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Costumes, Established Relationship, Innuendo, M/M, One Shot, general Carnivale-related naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 19:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16980792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: Being the particular friend of James Fitzjames has its drawbacks, as Henry Le Vesconte learns during the expedition's first carnivale. But it also has its advantages, as Henry learns once the carnivale is over.Written for Day 1 (A Special Disguise) of the12 Days of Carnivale.





	A Cheetah Never Changes His Spots

The first carnivale was held on Beechey at Christmas, and while Sir John’s presence presiding over the festivities prevented any wagering or less seemly amusements, the costumes were as outlandish as creativity and limited supplies could contrive. There were beggars in rags and gypsy women, their arms bedecked with golden bangles; there were Roman centurions and Druids with long, hoary beards; there were jesters in belled caps and medieval ladies in wimples, hiding their bearded visages behind handkerchiefs or fans. Commander James Fitzjames had arrived at the makeshift ballroom - built over the preceding weeks on the eastern shore of the island, beneath the limestone cliffs that blocked the worst of the northwestern winds - in the guise of Henry V fresh from Agincourt, golden crown upon his head, tunic of lions rampant and fleurs-de-lys on his chest. But by the time he ascended the small dais where some of the expedition’s better musicians had been chasing off the chill with lively reels, he had returned to his naval uniform. Only the most keenly observant among the revelers noticed that he had donned a lieutenant’s coat rather than a commander’s.

“Gentlemen!” he cried, his voice resounding in the cold air. All eyes were drawn in his direction. “I ask you to imagine a scene quite different from this one. The deck of a fine 16-gun sloop, sailing the balmy waters of the Indian Ocean. It has called at the port of Basra, in that fabled land of spices both savory and sweet, of swirling sands and veiled beauties, of jewels as big as a man’s fist. Can you picture the scene, men?”

There were raucous whistles and enthusiastic yells in answer, and Fitzjames grinned.

“Now: as many of you know, I was appointed captain of just such a sloop some years ago, and steered it into just that harbor. And, as some of you have heard, my men and I took on board there a remarkable creature: a cheetah, that beast of inimitable speed, sinuous of limb and sleek of spotted coat. What you do not know, however,” he continued, his voice falling into a lower, conspiratorial tone, “is that I have kept that creature all these intervening years and even contrived to bring him with us here, to the top of the world.” Fully cognizant of holding his audience in the palm of his hand - save, perhaps, for Captain Crozier, who stood toward the back of the assembly, endeavoring not to roll his eyes - Fitzjames allowed his voice to build again to a ringing crescendo. “I must ask you all to remain calm. For though he has long been in company with men, this creature is still a predator: wild, untamable, and utterly vicious.” Stepping off the dais, Fitzjames went over to the drawn flaps of one of the tents that formed the walls of the ballroom, and reached cautiously inside. With a cry of pain, he jerked his hand out again and the gathered men gasped, playing along as the commander cradled his hand as if bitten.

“Vicious, I tell you,” he said in an undertone, then, at the top of his voice: “Men! I present to you, the cheetah of _HMS Clio_!”

Reaching inside the tent flap again, Fitzjames fetched up the end of a length of rope and gave it a tug. What emerged from inside the tent made the gathered men dissolve into uproarious laughter. And the mystery that some of them had puzzled over since the beginning of the evening - namely, the strange absence of Lieutenant Le Vesconte - was at last solved. Le Vesconte was still clad in his uniform, but his face was painted with cheetah spots, and ears made of felt stuck out of the waves of his graying hair. When he turned to the side - a movement orchestrated by Fitzjames, leading him about by the rope attached to a leather collar around his neck - a similarly spotted tail was observed, poking out the back of the lieutenant’s coat.

“Make no sudden movements!” Fitzjames cried, clearly enjoying the joke. “His speed is prodigious! He will pin you to the ground before you even realize what has occurred!”

The men cheered through their laughter, and those closest to the dais might have seen the wicked grin Fitzjames threw at Le Vesconte, or the sigh of weary resignation with which Le Vesconte responded. At the back of the ballroom, it was likely Sir John saw neither, but he applauded the performance all the same.

“Le Vesconte’s a good sport, eh Francis?” he said to the captain of _Terror_. Francis merely harrumphed.

***

It was well past midnight by the time the men returned to their ships and retired for the night. Fitzjames was in his cabin, easing out of his coat, when there was a familiar knock on his door. Smiling with anticipation, he opened it.

“My, my, if it isn’t the wildcat, so far from his temperate home.”

Le Vesconte groaned as he stepped past Fitzjames. He was still wearing his spots, ears, and collar, and his tail brushed Fitzjames’s thigh as he walked in. “I will never forgive you for this, James.”

“I know,” Fitzjames replied amiably, sliding the door closed. “But it was worth it. You make such an adorable cheetah, Henry.”

“I deserve a promotion for this alone.”

“I agree. And I’ll be the first to recommend you for it.” He held up his hands as if framing a piece of paper between them. “ _To the Lords of the Admiralty, and the Honorable John Barrow, Second Secretary: My dear sirs. Given his astonishing performance as a surly but handsome cheetah during our first Arctic carnivale, may I commend to your consideration for promotion Third Lieutenant Henry Thomas Dundas Le Vesconte…_ ”

“Very amusing.” Le Vesconte frowned. “I have been utterly humiliated. How will the men ever take me seriously again after this?”

“Set your mind at ease. They will respect you all the more for not being a man who takes himself too seriously.” Fitzjames crossed the few steps of distance separating them and laid his hand upon Le Vesconte’s chest. “But tell me, Henry. Did you really come to my cabin at this late hour just to lobby for promotion?”

Le Vesconte swallowed but held Fitzjames’s gaze. “What else?”

“Mmm. A very dangerous question, Henry.” Fitzjames cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. “You know, there _is_ something I’ve been wondering all evening. Are these lovely spots of yours just confined to the face, or do they extend farther south?” He trailed his fingers slowly down the buttons of the lieutenant’s waistcoat.

“That’s something you’ll have to answer for yourself.”

“Such cheek.” Fitzjames reached up and untied his neckcloth, pulling the garment free. “You forget yourself, sir. That promotion hasn’t come through yet. I’m still your commanding officer.” He wrapped the ends of the cloth around his hands and pulled it taut between them, stepping forward so that the tip of his long nose was mere inches from Le Vesconte’s. “Insolence must be punished, Henry, just as it was back on the _Clio_. I had a feeling that collar might come in handy.”

“James.” The name left Le Vesconte’s lips in a hot rush, an accusation or a prayer.

Fitzjames fed one end of the neckcloth through the metal loop in the leather and knotted it. “Such a good boy,” he murmured, giving the cloth an experimental pull. Le Vesconte came forward, crashing willingly into Fitzjames’s chest, their mouths brushing.

“Come, my pet,” the commander whispered, tugging Le Vesconte towards the bunk. “Let’s get you as wild and naked as you were back in Basra, shall we?”

Le Vesctone smiled. “Your wish is my command. But don’t forget, James: I still scratch.”


End file.
